They were into their second week of lessons together and he showed up every time, without fail, at seven on the dot, but today he was late. She suddenly wondered if maybe he was stuck off world on a mission. Just as a minor sense of panic began to course through her body, a knock sounded on her door.

"What did you do?" she asked, concerned, as he came into her quarters. He had the beginnings of a black eye and a fresh gash through his eyebrow.

"Sparring match injury," he replied without further explanation, sitting down.

"Oh my God," she gasped, stopping herself just short of gently touching his face to make sure he was all right. She quickly yanked her arm back to her side.

"I'm fine, really," he assured her, noticing her awkward jerk in movement.

"Does this happen frequently?" she asked in a tone between amusement and bewilderment as she too took a seat.

"Sort of yeah," he answered, scratching his head.

"You must have all kinds of gnarly scars from stuff like that, then," she said nonchalantly, opening a Spanish book.

He nodded, pulling his shirt collar to the side. She looked up at him with surprise. "I got this one during training back on Sateda from my commanding officer."

"You were in the military?" she asked, turning her body toward him and looking at the scar that started on his lower neck and snaked down to his collarbone.

"I was a Specialist in the army of my planet," he responded, letting his shirt settle back into place.

"I had no idea," she said.

He nodded. "This one," he gestured to his bicep, "was from when Sheppard shot me about two years ago," he said with mock contempt, smirking. He paused and the small smile faded from his face. "I uh used to have a few scars on my back from when I was a runner. McKay actually got rid of them," he said in a much quieter tone, no longer meeting her gaze.

"From when you were a runner?" she repeated. "What's that?" she asked, shaking her head.

He didn't say anything.

"Oh, if you don't want to talk about it, please don't," she spat out quickly, "It's not my business."

"Remember how you asked me why I survived the destruction of Sateda?" he asked, despite her protests.

She nodded, eyes wide.

"I was taken. By the Wraith. I was taken alive onto a hive ship and they saw potential," he uttered the word with an air of disdain, "in me and decided to use me for sport instead of feed on me immediately."

She gasped, her eyes flickering to his muscled back.

"They implanted a tracking device into my back so they could follow me and hunt me." He paused again. "I hunted back. I tried taking the tracker out on my own a few times, but couldn't get it. That's what a lot of the scars were from," he explained, "I lived like that for seven years."

She stared at him, speechless. She timidly laid her hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He smiled a small bitter smile. "There you go again," he said in a hoarse whisper, "It's not your fault," he said back to her. There was a pregnant silence for a moment; finally Ronon spoke again. "What about you?" he asked, at last looking at her.

"What about me?" she asked back, taking her hand back and folding her arms across her chest.

"You have any scars with great stories?" he continued.

"Not really," she answered, thinking about it, "I mean… It's so trivial," she started, shaking her head and not finishing.

He stared at her expectantly.

She brought her knee to her chest and pulled off her right sock. "I was in a sorority in college…it's like a sisterhood of young women," she clarified, noticing that he was looking at her strangely. "Anyway, we were hosting a philanthropy event. It was a kickball tournament and I had just kicked the ball to one of the other team's outfielders –we were playing one of the fraternities," she interjected, "so I was running the bases and I got to third and this jerk of a Kappa Sig playing third baseman pushed me over and I cut my foot right open on an exposed sprinkler head." She paused and smiled an ironic, cold smile. "I ended up dating him for six months," she finished quietly.

He studied her features. "Why?" he asked.

"Oh if I knew I'd tell you," she sighed.

"So just the one scar?" he enquired, "No more?"

"No," she said slowly, yielding. She took in a quick breath and closed her eyes. "God, I can't believe I'm telling you this…" she muttered. "When I was five, I got the chicken pox."

"Chicken pox?"

"Yeah, it's a disease that children get on Earth. You get itchy spots all over your body and it's not lethal or anything, but it sucks when you do have it. You only get it once in your life though."

"We call it something different," he nodded in comprehension, indicating her to continue.

"I got them real bad," she recounted, "so I have a bunch of really ugly scars on my stomach from them. I hate them," she confessed, putting a hand over her stomach.

"Let me see," Ronon said.

"No!" she countered quickly.

"Sorry," he apologized, losing his calm composure a bit, "I – I shouldn't have asked like that."

She stared at him and looked into his eyes. Normally she would have been reticent, but he had just shared something really vulnerable about himself so she figured she'd share in turn. She stood up and lifted her shirt up to her waist. She glimpsed his hazel eyes momentarily widen at the unexpected gesture, but he did his best to hide his surprise. "I think I have about eight of them," she sighed, touching a few of the small pockmarks.

"You can barely see them," Ronon assured her, "I promise."

She smiled and pulled her shirt back down, blushing. "Maybe if I had a better story to go with them than just the chicken pox, they wouldn't be so ugly," she frowned as she sat in her chair.

Ronon rolled up his pant leg and showed her a nasty scar on his shin.

"What's that from?" she asked him.

"I fell down the stairs here about a year ago," he told her. "Everybody's human."

She grinned widely, her heart suddenly beating harder.

"Of course, I told everyone that it was from a sparring accident," he smirked.

"Of course," she repeated, smirking back.

"What's this one from, then?" he asked, pointing at her left wrist where a huge network of gash marks intersected and crisscrossed on the soft skin there and up the inside of her forearm.

"Nothing," she answered a little too quickly, pulling her arms into herself and crossing them over her stomach. "I mean, I don't remember," she said in a would-be calm tone. "I think it was from an accident on the ranch when I was little," she covered.

He looked at her suspiciously.

"So should we get started on some Spanish?" she suggested, changing the subject.

Thanks for all of your reading and reviewing, everyone! :D